


What a sorry day to be alive.

by tear_in_my_go_kart



Category: Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: "AYE THEY WAS CORONAS", Angst, Comfort/Angst, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, My first fic, mafia mention, race sold his mom off to the mafia, so dont judge me blease, they gave him cigars after lol, this is like
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-09
Updated: 2018-10-09
Packaged: 2019-07-16 14:54:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16088387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tear_in_my_go_kart/pseuds/tear_in_my_go_kart
Summary: They don't always tell you that memories come and haunt you later in life.Racetrack Higgins, unlucky to say, was one of the victims of the lack of information.----platonic ralbert hurt comfort fic have fun





	What a sorry day to be alive.

It was an unusual sight, seeing Racetrack Higgins on the verge of tears.

If anything, it was something you see once in a lifetime. The closest that the newsboy ever got to crying was when he felt relatively down, and even then, he toughed through it like the trooper he put himself up to be.

To everyone, Race was just that naturally resilient. If he was being honest with himself, too, he would agree. All of the kids around him had gotten through something that affected them, something in particular that had shaped who they are, yet some of them seem to react differently to the effects of it on themselves. Short stacks seem to cry on the daily just remembering about it. The older newsies, though? They either resolved their conflicts already or put it somewhere where it couldn't bother them.

At least, they thought it couldn't.

Race had the attitude that could pass as rude at times, but it was usually just expressing tough love. That was what most of the newsies seemed to categorize their acts with, seeing as none of them were much of the cuddly type, or the ones to want a random hug on the streets. Sayin' that out loud could get you stabbed on 'em instead. Race stayed tough and tall, high on a podium with the rest of them where their internal struggles were left far underneath them.

Until, one day, you slip.

And you can't get back up.

It was exactly 8:00, the sky beginning to fade into a cool shade of indigo over the Brooklyn Bridge. A soft breeze slithered its way through every crack in the concrete and every strand of hair on a newsboy's head who was still out and about, trying to sell their last pape to lousy businessmen who were on their way to greet their wives and children. The clouds dusted the sky along with stars starting to blink and flicker on. The night was young, and so were all the kids just getting by with only a hat and a vest to their name.

Most of them were already back to their less than comfortable beds on the streets, or in their bunks in their borough's lodging house. Some newsboys were just trying to sell their third or second pape, and some of the cursed fellas hadn't even got on their fifth. Those were only for the ones who had just started in the 'business', though. Even Elmer could beat them at a competition for amount of people tricked into thinking the day was much more bustling than usual.

The only one that kids could remember off the top of their head though, wasn't back in his 'bed' for the night. No. The only outline of his lanky composure could be seen on the closest edge he could get of the mentioned bridge before, his legs criss-cross, head low and pale arms sitting peacefully on his lap. This boy, as stated, went by the name Racetrack. His actual name wasn't considered the most 'normal' to him, considering he wanted to forget it most of the time. Considering the fact that, even on nights where all he could seem to mention in his mind was the amount of shots he had drunk, the word _Antonio_ seeped through a person's teeth like poison no matter the true intention of it.

His curly blonde hair blew with the wind, attire too thin for the time of day and location. His head leaned against one of the bars, his hands fiddling together in-between his legs as the river seemed to look so regrettably remarkable this one particular night. This one particular night, where, in spite of it all, tear stains striped his sunken cheeks. That was the least of their problems, though. The problem was that Race wasn't anywhere anybody would look to find him.

Bars, alleys, the lodge, anywhere that could be open when the people still crowded the streets like sheep to a shepherd. Nobody went to the Sheepshead at night--it was just cold, and quiet. Much too quiet for Brooklyn or Coney. When the moon was just starting to graze over the thick horizon line, it had already emptied out. No newsie or rich fella around would want to gamble there considering no races were taking place. Nobody would ever think to cross the dark Brooklyn bridge at this time.

Technically, Race didn't really cross it. He made it half way, and wasn't planning on dragging his torn boots across the rest of it before he found himself on the ground, with his head running on its own like a loose racehorse and his own reflexes being too sudden for him to realize they were even there. Really, a few minutes before, you could even consider him crying. If he admitted to it, maybe just a bit more than regular tears. Now, though? He was only contemplating with silent, salty streams streaking down his face every now and then as the waters rang through his ears like cicadas on a hot summer evening.

His dazzling sapphire eyes gently traced the city's skyline as his lithe hands fiddled with the cap so gently held in his lap. Quiet from the particular blonde was usually a sight only seen at night, with the lights shut and covers thrown, though only one of those applied at the moment. He knew it wouldn't last long. In a day, he'd be back on his feet, screaming at the top of his lungs when someone manages to knock down a Delancey. It was how the cycle worked. Though, the cycle usually takes either years to a day to come back around. The last time it relapsed was two years ago. He was in the same exact position, same exact tears for the same exact reason.

He knew he shouldn't have sold her off for coronas. He knew it, he thought it, and god fucking dammit he felt it but he did it anyway.

When you're twelve years old, you don't even know what trouble you're getting into until you've either already ten feet deep in it, or crossed by it only for it to bite you right in the ass later. You don't realize that family is something that, even if it doesn't seem like it to yourself, hurts when its finally gone. You don't realize that you'll spend reserved hours to yourself, with the rest of your friends searching all through lower Manhattan just to catch a glimpse of your blonde hair, with worthless sobs shuddering through your rib cage only for them to come out as hushed choking.

She wasn't the best mother. He knew that, but she loved him. She loved him so much, and when he was given the opportunity, he just gave her away like she could be replaced by someone else. For the first day, it was pretty nice. Nobody to boss him around, nobody to tell him to stop smoking those damn cigars.

They had given him coronas. He never wanted to see a box of them again.

Anything that brought him back to her when he looked like this ended up with him shedding more tears. Though, he tried to keep himself quiet and steady. He couldn't have someone walk into him, shaking like a scared animal on the side of the road.

He gently shook his head at the thought. No, they would think he was just some weak...thing who didn't know how to take care of himself. He was Racetrack Higgins, the newsie who could make fun of anybody and still be friends with everybody. He didn't need to be found..like this.

"Racer, jesus christ!"

So much for that.

The blonde shut his eyes, wincing from the sudden shout of his name. The voice rang in his ears, and immediately he knew who it was. He sounded both angry and relieved at the same time, if possible.

Fiery red hair exposed from the lack of a backwards cap: the one and only Albert Dasilva seemed to be the one who could locate Racetrack easier than the rest. Ever since Race had got into the newsboy business, Albert was right next to him, both of their arms swung around each other as they faced the world with their chin up. If you've ever met them, you could describe them as best-as-best-can-be-buds. Stealing anything the other owned was practically habit, and as much as they piss each other off, they were inseparable.

Sometimes, though, that doesn't work out in the other's favor, seeing as Race was pretty good with staying by himself. Though Albert won't have any of that 'leave me alone' nonsense. He's been around too many newsies to know that when they say that, they really mean 'I want you to go away but I secretly wish you would stay'. Or something.

Quick as a gazelle, Albert jogged over to the other, his stick being tossed from hand to hand before he stopped right in front of him. He took a look around, eyes reflecting the moon high in the sky while gazing over the river before he landed back on his best friend. The night was plain, and cold. Why would he wanna be out when it's plain and cold?

"What are ya doin'? You'se gonna catch a cold out here! We need'ta get ya back to the lodge before your legs freeze, everyone's been worryin' sick!" Albert barked, though with no bite behind it. A small shiver passed through his arms from the breeze.

He hated to admit it, but he had been relieved when he spotted the familiar paleness of Racetrack's skin on the bridge. The hike that he had to complete to get to the wooden structure was already long, and the weight that clawed on his shoulders that he might've not even been there had just been extra luggage.

Race shut his eyes again, sucking in a long breath before brushing a hand through his hair. "..I'll be by later. I ain't cold, got used to it a while ago." He mumbled, tracing his fingertips across his arm until they found themselves at his elbow. His tone was croaky, like he had to swallow a gallon of cough medicine.

"You'se is shakin, an' I can see that even in the middle of the night. Which, by the way, it is," Albert scowled, though he wasn't tired. It wasn't unusual to see them still jumping around the lodge, with shirts thrown across the walls and shoes being lost at three AM. However, energy wasn't what was keeping the redhead awake; it was the fact that Race was still out on a night with a breeze from the north pole for no apparent reason at all.

"Just come on, Jack might lay ya off if you get back in the next fifteen minutes." Al snorted, taking a few more steps to Race and bumping him on the head with his stick. Race groaned, swatting his hand away before he placed the cap on his head to cover his mop of blonde hair.

His brows knit together when the other didn't move an inch. The tension was growing thicker with each second passing, something he wasn't used to in the presence of his best friend. He bit the inside of his cheek before leaning on the rail.

"... C'mon. Whats buggin' you?" He put one of his callused hands in his pockets, hazel eyes narrowed but expression ever so slightly concerned. Race wasn't acting like he knew he did.

He didn't respond.

Albert waited for a few more seconds for an answer to bloom, before it caught up to him that he wasn't going to get one. A soft sigh brushed past his lips. Tossing the stick to the side for the time being, he gently lowered himself, ending up next to Race on the wooden planks of the walkway. He placed his hands in his lap, just as Race had done with his own, and looked over to study his expression.

There were tears staining his cheeks, with his sapphire eyes looking off to the moonlit river rather than on him, or on anything else, really. He looked like his mind was in a different place, and that, plus his glassy gaze, waved a million red flags in Albert's mind. A look of worry passed his features before he gently nudged his arm.

"Hey. You can tell me anythin', right? I'm your best pal," Al attempted to reassure, awkwardly shifting on the hard surface.

Race, in all honesty, didn't want to answer him. But he knew that he would keep bugging if he didn't. He just wanted to stay here until everything went back to normal, and he didn't have to worry about his stupid fucking mother for the next year or so until the thought comes back. Albert didn't have to worry about him so much. The last time this had happened, nobody found him, and he had just shown up the next day. Now he needs to find a better hiding spot. It was a game of hide-and-seek that he had finally lost.

It took a minute, but eventually Race let a deep sigh bloom from his lips like a bush of thorny roses. Letting his head fall, he fiddled with his fingers before opening his mouth to speak.

"...A box."

"A box?" Albert repeated, obviously confused by his answer.

"All they gave me." He shrugged, expression dark as tears threatened to spill from his eyes once more. He didn't like to talk about it to anybody, and the fact that it was Albert he was finally telling it to didn't help. If anything, it just made it worse.

Though, he didn't understand it still. If anything, the situation just got more mind-boggling for Al as Race spoke. "...Box of what? For what?" As much as he wanted to try and help, he really couldn't wrap his mind around what he was trying to tell him. It was too little information for him to go off of, given he wasn't the best at comforting in the first place.

Race didn't give him an answer. He didn't even want to talk about it in the first place, and it was already beginning to shred at his heart like a wolf sharpening its claws against a stone wall. He tried his best to choke back a sob as a silent stream traced his cheekbone, looking down in his lap before back at the horizon line. Not here. Not now.

Albert observed how the other reacted. He bit the inside of his cheek when he saw the tear run down his face. He made him talk about it.

For a moment, none of them spoke. Both of them had their gaze fixed on the shadows and the reflections of the waves, which no longer called out with comfort with the tension that had built so thick that you needed a butcher knife to cut through it. Albert was considering saying something, anything, but couldn't find himself to bring up the right words. It didn't help that he wasn't all that great with emotion in the first place, nonetheless someone else's.

Carefully, Al reached his arm over and hooked it around Race, then bringing his other one to put his head to his chest. It was a bit awkward, but Race didn't seem to mind that at all. To Al's surprise, through the deafening silence, he could feel as well as hear shuddering sobs start to overcome the blonde he was holding so close.

Race never cried. It was rare to see him shed a tear, and even when he did, it was because he was either losing a fight that he could have won or when he got hurt so badly that it was enough to give into the pain. Albert never, ever saw him like this before, and it caught him off guard.

Everything was just overwhelming to him. The fact that someone was comforting him was new and an uncertain feeling, but Race gave into it. It was too much for him to think about alone and even if he would murder him if he told anybody the day after, he was-dare he say-glad that Albert had found him on the bridge.

Maybe just this once, it was good to expose yourself just a bit.

After a few minutes of Albert rubbing comforting circles into Race's back while he allowed whatever wall Race had put up to be torn down, the blonde composed himself again, and tore away from his friend. His thin hands were trembling but that wasn't anything unexpected. However, despite the more vicious stripes that coated his cheeks, a small, barely noticeable smile was resting on his lips. He looked down in his lap, and then to Albert, before sighing and standing up.

"We's gotta head back, now. I'll handle Jack, he won' be mad at me if I'se give him an explanation 'bout all this." Race chuckled, reaching out a hand for Albert, who smiled at his small recovery and stood up.

They both hooked an arm around each other's necks, and started on their way across the bridge and back to the Lodge.

"Ya know, you looked awful pretty in the moonlight, Racer."

"Shut up."


End file.
